


The Gay Serum

by stew (julie)



Category: The Comic Strip Presents..., The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Blackmail, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Satire, Spies & Secret Agents, The Bullshitters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1991-10-24
Updated: 1991-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/stew
Summary: The KGB have a dastardly plot: to kidnap Bonehead, inject him with the Gay Serum, and then blackmail him with the resulting photographs. Bonehead makes for easy prey…
Relationships: Bonehead/Foyle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	The Gay Serum

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** A prequel to the Bullshitters episode “Roll Out the Gunbarrel”. 
> 
> **First published:** in the zine “Free for All” #1 by Felix Press on 24 October 1991.

# The Comic Strip Presents: THE BULLSHITTERS 

## Tonight’s Episode: THE GAY SERUM

♦

Bonehead struggled uselessly against his bonds, shivering in the damp air of the cellar. If only he’d been wearing more than his blue G-string when he’d been kidnapped outside his favourite nightclub in the small hours of Saturday morning… “You’re wasting your time,” he mumbled through the gag. “I’m not going to break.”

“Oh, but you will, Bonehead,” the KGB agent promised him. “We have a secret weapon now… and it’s very useful when we want to blackmail men such as yourself.” He held a hypodermic syringe in front of the DI5 operative. The pink liquid it contained glittered in the light. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it before,” the agent continued conversationally as another man swabbed Bonehead’s arm to prepare him for the injection. “I know information about it has been leaked to the West, though you were probably all highly sceptical about it. It’s called… the Gay Serum.”

The needle pressed into Bonehead’s skin. He watched in horror as the liquid was pushed out of the hypodermic. Despite the gag, he screamed. “Mmmfff… Nnnooo!!!”

♦

The figure stumbled unknowingly down the pathway, bare feet in the dirt, and his sapphire blue G-string glowing in the moonlight and matching his befuddled eyes. 

“Oh mary!” a voice cried out in high camp. “A vision from heaven!” A black man, built on a generous scale and dressed in vaudeville drag, stepped out of the shadows of the surrounding trees. “You must be an angel. Or else this dope is of exceptionally fine quality.”

The man in the G-string came to a halt before him, almost falling over his own feet, and he stood there uncertainly, eyeing the other man with wary hope.

“Are you all right?” The camp tones were dropped, and replaced by genuine concern. “You’ll catch your death of cold dressed like that… Not that I’m complaining about the view, mind. Do you have a name…?”

The heavenly apparition frowned. If he did, he didn’t know it. He swayed on his feet, looking confused. 

The Good Samaritan smiled, equal parts kindness and lust. “I think you’d better come home with me…” And the addled Bonehead seemed to welcome his supportive embrace. 

Nearby, the KGB agent and his assistant stood in darkness. “He’s taken to it like a fish to water,” the assistant observed. 

“Easy as cake,” the agent smugly replied. “Bonehead is a natural.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the best British traitors are gay,” the agent opined as they strolled after Bonehead and his new companion. “Gay and pretty.”

“Like Rupert Bennett, for instance?”

The agent sighed contentedly. “Another piece of pie. Rupert was my favourite.” Then he snapped, business-like, “Follow them. I want photos! We’ve got to have evidence to blackmail him with!”

“Yes, sir!” The assistant scurried away, camera in hand. 

Unseen by all, an NI6 operative was loitering nearby with intent to meet a snitch. He watched Bonehead stumble by in the arms of a cuddly black drag queen, and raised his eyebrows. Those DI5 lads, Jackson’s Crackpots – they wanted all the world to think they were untouchable, incorruptible, unimpeachable… and then look at what they got up to after dark. There were plenty of people any good NI6 operative would know, who’d be very interested in this little snippet of information. 

♦

Martin Foyle wandered into the DI5 breakroom first thing on Monday morning, looking for his partner. “Anyone seen Bonehead?” he asked through the smoky gloom. 

“Why? Did he stand you up, dahhhling?” an anonymous voice countered.

Frowning, and a little perplexed by the suggestive tones, Foyle replied, “As a matter of fact, yes. We were going to see a play Saturday night, and he never turned up.”

“Theatre? No wonder he did a runner, pet,” someone else muttered, risking life and limb. Everyone knew Foyle’s temper had a particularly short fuse, especially when it came to mention of his artistic interests and leanings. 

“Uphill battle trying to give Bonehead culture anyway,” another operative observed. 

Then Smurphy eased up close out of the fog, and loomed over the curly-haired Foyle. “You really haven’t heard? Bonehead’s been a naughty lad…”

“Yeah! Someone’s _turned_ him.”

“Turned him over and…” There was general laughter. 

Smurphy beamed down at the increasingly irate Foyle. He obligingly explained, “Bonehead has been observed… walking on the Wilde side.”

Foyle let loose with a fist, severely jarring Smurphy’s grin, then stalked out the door and down the corridor to Jackson’s office. He knocked perfunctorily and barged in, liberties that usually only Bonehead could take. “What’s all this about Bonehead, Commander?”

Jackson sighed over his morning glass of scotch, and gloomily said, “Aye, lad. He was seen by NI6 on Saturday night, trawling about on Hampstead Heath.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I know it’s just the sort of lie that NI6 would love to tell about me and mine, but in this case it happens to be true.”

Foyle shook his head, bewildered. “Some sort of undercover assignment?” was his sole attempt to reasonably explain the situation. 

“No, lad.”

“Christ.” Foyle sat down. “What happens now? You going to sack him?”

“Not until I get some answers. There’s something else behind this – I sent Smurphy to check it out. He said Bonehead seemed to have some sort of amnesia. And, as he was leaving, Smurphy saw a suspected Russian agent hanging around nearby.”

“I’ll go sort this out.” Foyle stood again, determined. 

“Leave him be, lad. The situation is under control – and I have him under surveillance.”

“Yes, Commander.” He strode out of the office.

“I mean it, Foyle!” came Jackson’s voice, echoing down the corridor.

“Yes, Commander,” the operative muttered to himself. He almost ran into Smurphy, who was leaning nonchalantly against Foyle’s locker. “You should have called me yesterday,” Foyle complained. “You should have told _me_ before Jackson!”

Smurphy shrugged. “Orders.” He looked at his watch. “This time of day… he’ll be having breakfast with his new friends at the Bourbon and Beefcake.”

“Thanks, mate.” Foyle checked that his gun was fully loaded, holstered it, and left. After having second thoughts, considering the area of London he was venturing into, he returned for a moment to pull a pair of Bonehead’s jeans on over his emerald green jocks. The jeans might be voluminous on him, but they made Foyle feel a little more protected. 

♦

Anyone who had had to cope with the DI5 breakroom could easily deal with the Bourbon and Beefcake’s atmosphere, thick though it was. Foyle spotted Bonehead through the haze immediately. For some reason – maybe it was the man’s luminous blue eyes, or his startlingly handsome looks – he was all that Foyle could focus on. 

As the operative began to weave between the tables towards the man and his friends, Bonehead looked up and saw him. And stared, obviously interested. But Foyle searched in vain for the light of recognition in Bonehead’s steady gaze.

“I want to talk to you,” Foyle said once he’d reached his partner’s side.

Bonehead stood. “Sure, sunshine.” He smiled, and glanced at the mixed bag of fruits and nuts who were his companions. “Somewhere private?”

Foyle nodded distractedly, and was led to a secluded booth down the back of the restaurant. For the first time he noticed what Bonehead was dressed in. “Nice skirts,” he observed with what he hoped was sarcasm, while bemusedly watching the sway of Bonehead’s hips and listening to the swish of silk around Bonehead’s legs. 

“Thanks,” Bonehead replied as they sat down opposite each other. “Is that a wig you’re wearing? You must be an actor.”

Scowling, Foyle ground out, “It’s not a wig, _OK?”_

Bonehead shrugged. “I was just gonna tell you it needed adjusting. I guess it needs a cut instead! Still, all that wilderness suits you, angelfish.” Then his face fell as Foyle flashed his DI5 ID at him. “Is this a bust?”

“No.” Foyle just sat there for a moment, drinking in the sight of his mate. He’d missed him over the weekend, that was for sure. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Should I, sweetheart?” Bonehead returned his gaze quizzically. “I wouldn’t have thought I’d forget a gorgeous fellow like you in a hurry. Not that I seem to remember much at all these days…”

Foyle found himself blushing. Trust his partner to think that he, Foyle, was an old trick of his or something. “We used to be friends,” he said, trying to jog the man’s memory.

“I wouldn’t have thought,” Bonehead said in a teasingly flirty tone, “that I’d want to be just your friend…”

The worst of it, Foyle decided, was that Bonehead could be damned seductive when he put the effort in. Foyle couldn’t remember the last time that a girl had turned his partner down, especially not when he was trying this hard. “I would appreciate it if you would quit attempting to chat me up,” he complained. 

“Wasn’t _attempting_ ,” Bonehead pouted. “I was succeeding.”

Foyle tried a different tack. “What’s your name?” 

“Boner.”

Foyle choked. “You’re crazy…” he said weakly. “I don’t know what this is, but –” But Jackson would break both his arms if Foyle tried to convince Bonehead of who he really was. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Stay a while, sunshine… You know you want me.”

Standing from the booth, Foyle tried to pull himself together. “See you,” he said, and headed for the door. Virtually at a run. Because Foyle suddenly _did_ want his partner, in exactly the deplorable way that ‘Boner’ had suggested. And of course ‘Boner’ only wanted Foyle because poor Bonehead was thoroughly deranged. 

It was all too confusing and too ludicrous to take seriously. _If only I didn’t have a conscience_ , Foyle lamented to himself as he left half the rubber of his tyres on the road in his usual speedy getaway. _If only I could rely on Bonehead not remembering everything that ‘Boner’ got up to_ … 

♦

Bonehead let the silk skirts fall to the floor, and picked up the studded leather. There was a jacket and jocks, boots and a cap, and very little else. He let them take photos as he dressed and then as he posed. They told him he was beautiful, and he grinned. 

In all the muddle and confusion Bonehead only knew one thing: he felt thoroughly good for the first time in years. What this other man in leather was doing to him right now, for instance, set his blood racing like nothing else had in far too long – despite the spectators. He let someone ease the jocks down his thighs. A tongue began to lap at his balls. Then Bonehead gasped as a hand crept between his buttocks and began to insinuate itself within him. 

The only thing Bonehead regretted was that the curly-haired DI5 operative hadn’t stayed to play. _There_ was a man who’d had Bonehead’s heart pounding the moment he walked in the restaurant door. He could have really fallen for the guy. Although there _was_ something familiar about him, Bonehead now realised. He’d claimed to be a friend, and Bonehead wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t right. Things had been a little fuzzy lately, and it was particularly difficult to think when those gloved fingers were twisting in just that way…

Orgasm threatened even as the memories began to return, so that as his senses soared and he poured his seed into the other man’s mouth, he cried, “Foyle!” in sudden recognition. 

For a DI5 operative, even one on the brink of complete sexual fatigue, it was the work of a moment to render these horrible perverts unconscious, and make a crazed break for it.

♦

“I am in the process of cleaning my own doorstep,” Jackson was saying haughtily as Foyle pulled up short outside his office. “The matter is in hand.”

“Well, you’d better sweep fast,” the Admiral replied, “and then get down on your knees and scrub it, too.” Foyle had to press his ear against the closed door to hear the next. “There have been Questions in the House.”

“QUESTIONS IN THE HOUSE!!!” the Scot exploded. “ABOUT BONEHEAD???”

“Lord Dwight seemed to know all about your pet fairy. Needless to say, being a reactionary old Tory bigot he made an embarrassing fuss over it.”

“And how did Lord Dwight come to know of Bonehead’s recent regrettable pastimes?” After a pause Jackson hit on the answer. “Those scoundrels at NI6 must have leaked it to him, simply to cause me trouble!”

“Possibly. Only one solution remains, of course, George.”

“Of course,” Jackson replied wearily.

“A waste of talent, for both of us,” the Admiral lamented for a moment. “But you’ll be pleased to know I’ve arranged a replacement for Bonehead. His name is Thompson. I think you’ll find him suitable.”

Foyle leant insolently by the door as the Admiral left Jackson’s office, and then walked in unannounced. “I saw Bonehead this morning,” he said. 

“I know. Disobeying my direct orders is a serious business, Foyle.”

“But I have evidence that Bonehead is acting under the influence of something very sinister… I taped our conversation, and have just received the laboratory vocal scan reports. They prove that he’s been given the Gay Serum!”

“That may well be so, laddie, if the thing exists – but there’s no smoke without fire.”

Foyle snorted elegantly. “You know as well as I do that Bonehead is the most macho womaniser on the Squad.”

“Yes… So why all the rumours, Foyle? Everywhere I turn, people snidely accuse me of recruiting him for all sorts of personal reasons. A man I think of as my own son, for god’s sake! When I think of the dirt some people’s imaginations create…”

The head of DI5 rarely got emotional, and when he did it was DI5 policy to be unsympathetic. Foyle sighed. “No one takes all that seriously. You’re being paranoid. _I’m_ the one they usually link him with."

“…and just because I show him a little favouritism…” Jackson was continuing, oblivious. Then he added, outraged, “I’m a married man, Foyle!”

“Yeah? First I’ve heard of it.”

Jackson looked embarrassed. “It was a convenient plot development. Teenage daughter and all. One day she might be kidnapped, and –”

Bonehead trailed into the office, looking like death warmed over. He was suitably dressed in funereal black leather briefs, which bore the caption _Life’s a bitch. Until you meet a stud like me_. “Sorry I’m late, Commander. The KGB were holding me.”

“Doing a lot more than ‘holding’,” Foyle muttered.

Jackson loudly overrode him. “Be that as it may, Bonehead – you’re fired.”

“You can’t do that!” Foyle protested, trying to keep his gaze somewhere above groin level.

“Yes, he can,” Bonehead quietly replied. “You know what’s been going on, then, Commander?”

“Your weekend’s activities have been reported to me in all their unfortunate detail. You have skilfully managed to entertain all of DI5, and a fair portion of NI6. Congratulations are in order for your stamina and imagination.”

“But it wasn’t _me_ – it was the Gay Serum they gave me.” He sighed, already knowing how futile it was to protest. “God, I’m absolutely buggered.” At the raised eyebrows, he weakly amended, “I mean exhausted.”

“You know what they say – the Serum only works that well on someone already so inclined,” Jackson said.

“But _you_ know he’s not queer,” Foyle interrupted, while wishing in his heart that his gorgeous partner was, in fact, as camp as a row of tents.

Jackson simply shrugged. “Is there any evidence of your kidnapping? Or of the Serum?”

“No, sir,” Bonehead said. “I checked it all out as soon as I came to my senses, but they covered their tracks in too much glitter.”

“Even if there had been evidence, I’d still have to fire you, lad,” Jackson briskly replied. “It’s the only option open to me. There have been Questions in the House.”

“Yes, Commander,” Bonehead said sullenly. Then he added, “They took photos, you know.”

“No doubt they’ll turn up one day. In _Pravda_ , perhaps. Not that they’ll do anyone much harm now.”

“Goodbye, then, Commander.”

“Goodbye, lad, and good luck. You’ll understand that I can’t give you a reference.”

Bonehead walked out, shoulders squared. Foyle was left in front of Jackson’s desk, feeling stranded. After a moment of consideration, he cleared his throat and said, “So much for taking care of your own… I quit!”

♦

Foyle sprawled back on the uncomfortable sofa in his dressing room, waiting for his cue. Opening night of their new show. It was enough to give an ex-TV Tough Guy butterflies. You got used to having a partner, sharing all the fears as well as the fun. If only Bonehead could be with him now, to distract Foyle from his stage fright with his excruciating sense of humour. But, no, Bonehead had far too much to do these days, with his new business – Knobs – having achieved such success. He probably didn’t give his erstwhile partner a second thought, Foyle reflected. 

Reaching for his Walkman, Foyle inserted his favourite cassette and listened for the hundredth time to Bonehead’s voice. _Stay a while, sunshine… You know you want me._ But then his brain would replay the last words Bonehead had spoken to him as they’d cleaned out their DI5 lockers. _Sorry about the scene at the Bourbon and Beefcake. It was the Gay Serum talking; you know that. I didn’t mean a word of it._ Then Bonehead had drawn him into a fierce farewell hug. And Foyle had pulled away as soon as he could, knowing that he could never see the man again.

“Ten minute call for Martin Foyle,” a voice announced over the Tannoy speaker. 

Foyle sighed and stepped to the mirror to check on his makeup. _Oh wherefore art thou, Bonehead?_ he silently intoned. 

♦

Bonehead watched in safe anonymity from the shadows at the back of the stalls. Foyle’s opening night in some leftist claptrap play. It was a wonder he had the nerve. Bonehead stared hungrily at his old partner as Foyle made his first entrance. The man looked magnificent, strutting his stuff up there with the audience lapping him up. But Bonehead feared that the sweeping jade gaze would pierce the dark and find him. His confused motivations would be all too obvious to Foyle, if he was caught in the theatre. And Foyle would be as disgusted with him as Bonehead himself usually was. 

For this one nerve-exposing moment, though, Bonehead could be honest with himself and not blame his need for Foyle on the aftereffects of the Gay Serum. 

He crept quietly out through the foyer before the last enthusiastic curtain-call, and returned home to his lonely bed. Lying awake for hours, he thought in despair, _Alas, I’ll never be Foyled again_. 

♦


End file.
